Texting Innuendos
by That Kid With the Long Coat
Summary: Texting innuendoes normally leads to sex you didn't know you wanted. Includes Johnlock, and, yes, some innuendos. Fun stuff. Rated M for sexual content and language.
1. Innuendos

_Well, I should be doing an essay. Instead, my brain decided to be super dirty and thought this up. Brilliant._

* * *

To say the least, Sherlock is lonely.

He's_ never_ lonely.

Maybe bored, maybe hungry for _one_ person to deduce, maybe in need of someone to be a genius around - but _never_ lonely.

_Except_ right now, sitting in the flat that he shares with John, alone, with nothing to do. It's midday, but the clouds have darkened the sky to an inky black. The wind is howling, but there's no rain just yet. No one is out in the streets, save the normal traffic of vehicles.

_Lonely._

_Lonesome._

_Loner._

Sherlock is a loner if there ever was one. The one actual friend he shares any significant bond with is John. And they only have real contact about four days out of seven.

Sure, there's Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, he's close to them. But they're... different. _They're missing something._

The detective lets his thoughts shift around sluggishly for a bit before he picks up his phone.

* * *

"John, why did you stop?"

John is asking himself that as he stands up and walks across the room to his discarded jeans. The sweat is already starting to dry on his warm skin, the cool air away from the bed coaxing gooseflesh to rise on his arms, though his breathing is still low and ragged. He can feel her eyes scoring across his back as she hears it too.

"You're going to stop in the middle of a good shag just because he's calling you?"

The doctor shrugs, becoming suddenly self-conscious of his naked figure. "He never calls me," he replies, coughing as his voice rises a pitch at the look she gives him.

Just as he manages to pull the phone from his pocket, the tone stops, but echoes in his ears for a few moments. He can almost see Sherlock playing his violin as he stood by the door, phone outstretched, recording the melody for good use. He can see the surprised look in those grey eyes when Sherlock heard the recording for the first time, but said nothing.

He waits for a few moments before he gets a text.

**Where are you?  
****SH**

John sighs, his erection growing limp as he types, seeming slow even to himself.

_**Doesnt matter, where are you?**_

**At the flat. Bored. Come entertain me.  
****SH**

John is _pretty sure_ the detective doesn't mean what he thinks he means, but nonetheless something down there seems interested in the thought of it. Face turning a good shade of vermillion, he begins pulling on his pants with one hand, his phone in the other.

**_How do you expect me to do that?_**

It seems Sherlock was taking his time thinking of a good answer for that one, since the doctor has his jeans on and is buckling his belt when his phone chimes again. He ignores the irritated sigh from across the room, gathering the rest of his clothes as he walks out, eyes on the screen.

**I'm sure you'll come up with something.  
****SH**

John is _positive_ Sherlock has no idea what kind of innuendos he's sending him, but he doesn't care. Images are swimming in his head, pleasant, but unwelcome.

_**Oh will I?**_

Another minute's pause while he pulls on his shirt and shoes.

**Of course. Now come home. I need you here.  
****SH**

This is very un-Sherlock, and John frowns. Regardless, he leaves her apartment on the other side of London and hails a cab, not caring that he forgot his jacket. He doesn't have the time for that, he has other things to attend to at the moment.

_**Give me a bit. On the other side of London, on my way now.**_

Sitting in the back seat, he lowers his head, searching his pockets for proper cab fair (and avoiding the eyes in the rearview, hoping the cabby doesn't notice his flushed face and newly half-hard bulge under his belt).

* * *

_I feel like this should be a good two, three chapter story at most. Hope you like so far, now excuse me as I finish what I got on to start._ _Yeah, that essay._


	2. Definitions

Updating at the request of Jessie Holmes. Thanks to those who favorited and followed.

**Note: **Sexy times are being saved for next chapter, but here's some character development while you wait.

* * *

He's not in the cab for five minutes when he gets another text.

**Are you on your way?  
****SH**

John rolls his eyes.

_**Nope.**_

**Very funny John.  
****SH**

A small smile quirks his lips. _Jesus_, this man is impatient.

As the city flashes past, the doctor rests his head against the window, relishing the cool glass on his skin. His thoughts wander to his friend (and his slight arousal back at _her_ place), and he tries to be as rational as possible. He's sick of avoiding what's been right in front of him for a while now. John manages to make a few good discoveries about himself when his phone chimes again.

**You are on you're way though?  
****SH**

He chuckles, accompanied by a slight tightening in his stomach.

**_Why so worried Sher? It's not like you_**

Sherlock doesn't respond.

* * *

Sherlock abandons his phone beside him and sweeps his hands across his neck to the back of his head. He keeps them there for a moment before wildly ruffling his hair, mussing the dark curls further.

_I'm not worried_, he tells himself. _I'm _not_ worried_.

He was right, he wasn't worried.

He was...

_He was..._

What _was_ he exactly?

..._Anxious_? No. That didn't sound quite right. _Did it_?

**anx-ious** [**ang**-sh_uhs_, **ang**-]  
_**adjective**_  
1. _mental distress_ or uneasiness  
2. _earnestly desirous_; eager  
3. attended with or showing solicitude or uneasiness

**so-lic-i-tude **[_suh_-**lis**-i-tood, -tyood]  
**_noun_**  
1. the state of being solicitous; _anxiety_ or concern  
2. **solicitudes,** causes of _anxiety or care_  
3. an attitude expressing _excessive atteniveness_

**so-lic-i-tous** [_suh_-**lis**-i-_tus_]  
_**adjective**_  
1. _anxiously desirous_  
2. _eager_

Okay, so the way things were adding up, maybe he _was_ anxious. But why? What could he be anxious about? John was a grown man and could easily take care of himself. He was obviously with a woman, but why should Sherlock be bothered by that? Was he bothered? And what was all this about being "anxiously desirous"?

**de-sire** [dih-**zah**(**_uh_**)**r**]  
**_de-sir-ing, noun_**  
**_verb  
_**1. to wish or _long for_; crave; want

**want** [wont, wawnt]

_Oh, this was a long one..._

**_verb (used with__ object)_**_  
_1. to feel a_ need _or desire for  
2. to _wish_, _need_, _crave_, demand, or desire  
3. to _require_ or _need_  
_**verb (used without object)**_  
1. _to be deficient by the absence of something_  
2. to have _need_  
3. to be_ lacking or absent, _as a part or thing_ necessary to completeness_  
**_noun_**  
1. something _wanted_ or _needed_; _necessity_  
2. something _desired_, demanded, or _required_  
3. _lack_  
4. the state of being without something _desired_ or _needed_; need  
5. the state of being without the necessaries of life

Sherlock is feeling a sense of foreboding at this point. What is all this coming to?

**need **[need]  
_**noun**_  
1. urgent want  
2. _requirement_

Running a hand through his hair again, the detective closes his eyes. It seems like an eternity passes before he allows something in his mind to click. Something life changing, something terrifying, but... perhaps something necessary.

**John I need you here  
****SH**

_**I know Sherlock. I'm coming up now.**_


	3. Nearly There

I can't read any more good Sherlock fics. They fill me with self-loathing and make my inner critic make me want to burn everything I've ever written. Oh well. I can only get better, yeah?

Warnings: Two men having a tumble. Well, _almost_...

* * *

John finds Sherlock exactly where he expected to find him - in his chair, legs crossed, hair disheveled. As soon as he's in his friend's line of sight, the detective stumbles to his feet. His grey eyes are wild. His fingers betray a tremble that hasn't been there before.

"Everything okay?"

Face flushing slightly, Sherlock nibbles at his lip, piercing gaze focused on the doctor. John meets his eyes evenly, standing still in the doorway, just waiting. Something sparks in the air between them, and they both see it.

"John."

The word slaps him in the face from across the room, low and hoarse. Loaded with something. It awakens him, fills him with electricity, and Sherlock knows that. He takes a deliberate step forward, then another. John remains where he is. He seems unable to move, waiting on baited breath to see just where this was going. Stalking ever closer, the dark-haired man seems to be on a mission, but the doctor sees conflict hiding in those eyes. That could be dangerous.

"John," Sherlock repeats when they're nose to nose. "I- I need to do something."

The shorter man licks his lips breifly. "Do what?"

A small smirk quirks those cupid's bow lips before they're on his own, sweet and needy. John is startled, but not taken aback. He remembers the long talk he had with himself on the way here. It seems Sherlock had a talk of his own.

When he pulls away, John is left red-faced and out of breath with anticipation. "So we're not ignoring this anymore?" he whispers, hoping this is what he thinks it is and not something else.

"I remember you telling me once that it's all fine."

"And I remember you saying that you're married to your work."

Sherlock grimaces. "Things change."

A chuckle escapes from the doctor's mouth. "You don't."

Apparently determined to prove him wrong, the taller man clashes their mouths together again, though his tactics have changed. John pulls away reluctantly, panting, but the detective keeps their foreheads plastered together.

"_But you've never_-"

Dangerous eyes flash. An amused smirk twitches across his mouth. "I told you I know how it works," that sultry voice purrs, reminding the fair-haired man about a previous conversation.

That hits John in a bad place. Frowning slightly, he looks up, dark eyes skeptical. "So this is all just to prove a point?"

He seems insulted almost. "Now John. Do you really think that?"

Something in his tone convinces John that, no, this is the real thing. "But you never _have_ done this before," he murmurs, pulling his detective back in. Sherlock makes a non-obligatory grunt in the back of his throat.

John's skin prickles as his friend's hands latch onto him, pulling them closer together, their bodies flush. The doctor can feel their heartbeats hammering against each other, and he finds this unnecessarily arousing. The small noises and hot and heavy breathing coming from Sherlock do not help this matter. He can feel the evidence of his excitement straining against his zipper; Sherlock can feel it pressing against his leg. The detective's own erection is becoming apparent to both of them as well.

John grabs his arse, making Sherlock jump, arching himself further into the other man. He's eager for more. John can see it in the taller man's dilated pupils, the way musician's fingers clutch at his shirt.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"With Mrs Turner."

"Brilliant," John says, pushing them further into the sitting room and kicking the door shut behind them. Sherlock keeps them moving by leading them towards the couch. They collapse in a tangle of limbs and burning lips, fighting each other for the top. As it turns out, it's the detective. He sits proudly over John's hips, pinning the doctor's hands over his head - and John lets him. Sherlock looms over his friend's mouth for a moment before leaving a scorching kiss there and backing off before the bottom has time to react. The blond makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. The man with the darker hair offers a scared smile. Or maybe it's nervous. Or excited. Sherlock lacks the emotional knowledge, and John lacks the clarity of mind.

"_John_." There's his name again. John marvels at how much emotion can be loaded into the way he says his name, how many unsaid words can be spoken.

The thought ends when Sherlock positions himself in his lap, rocking his hips and rubbing against something that makes John's vision blur for a second.

"_Christ Sherlock_," he spits out, and Sherlock catches on quick that yes, that was pleasurable, and yes, he can and should do it again.

They rut against each other distractedly for a while before John pushes his friend backwards and pins him down with his hips. He smiles, nice and predatory, and the detective places a hand on the back of his neck impatiently, pulling him down for a more than inelegant kiss. He wants this, and he wants more, and he is not willing to piss around. Who has the patience for that?

Running his lips down Sherlock's jawline prompts another small noise to escape his friend's mouth. That small noise turns into a loud keen when John latches on to the sensitive flesh of the other man's throat.

"You know Sherlock," the blond moans, licking a line up that pale neck, "I've actually thought about this before. So. Fucking. Much." He punctuates each word with a light nip over the red marks he's made on that alabaster skin, gliding his tongue over each one afterwards. Sherlock whimpers.

Instead of lying idly by while John assaults his throat, Sherlock uses those skilled fingers to carefully unbutton the doctor's maroon shirt one by one. The blond doesn't even notice until a cool hand is tracing the lines of his chest, his abdomen. Sherlock's fingers trail lower, to John's waistband. He pauses, face flushing, tongue sliding out to wet his reddening lips. Soon enough the shirt is discarded, and John's torso is fully exposed. Sherlock leans against the arm of the couch and pushes John away from him, so that he's sitting up fully. Sherlock takes a minute just to admire the sight before he sets off on a quest to map out every square inch of John's exposed flesh.

John sits there, complacent, biting his lip and throwing his head back whenever Sherlock comes across a particularly sensitive spot with those careful fingers and those soft, wet lips. He moans obscenely as Sherlock strokes him distractedly through his jeans, tongue trailing along his collarbone. He hadn't been expecting that. John feels his cock throb, almost painfully, and decides enough is enough.

Placing one hand under Sherlock's chin, bringing him up for a wet kiss, he uses the other to finish unbuttoning the other man's shirt. John shoves the unneeded white fabric aside, rubbing his thumb against a hard nipple while he licks Sherlock's lower lip. The other man opens his mouth in consent, and John slips his tongue inside, exploring every inch. Sherlock lets out a moan from deep in his throat and sucks on it, mind fogged and hot. John slowly lays him back down, following him so that their bodies are pressed together.

They get used to the feel of each other for a long while, lips locked. Sherlock's hands are on the doctor's arse, pulling him into a long, full body grind. The sensation of their pulsing erections, even through a few layers of trapping fabric, gives the both of them a light-headed euphoric feel.

"_Fuck,_" they both whisper to themselves.

John just manages to get the zip down on Sherlock's trousers when a familiar "_Yoohoo_" sounds from outside, followed by a short knock.

Jumping, both men feel their eyes go wide.

_"Shit,"_ John hisses. _"You think if we're quiet-?"_

Sherlock shakes his head. His suspicions are confirmed when another call penetrates the door.

"Boys, I know you're in there. Open up please."

It takes only moments for Sherlock to button his shirt and open the door. He greets their landlady with a smile while John hides in the kitchen to buy some time to put on his own shirt. He walks out just in time to here her saying something about a phone call and "seems you've got another one".

A disappointed sigh escapes his lips.

Sherlock seems itching to find out more.

Mrs Hudson studies them both with a knowing look, focusing pointedly on the red mark glowing on Sherlock's neck and John's mussed hair.

* * *

Mmm, cockblocked by your landlady. How's that feel?

By the way, just to put this out there, I'm looking for a good beta for a novel-length Johnlock story I'm writing. It involves a post-reichenbach reunion and an Italian. Basically, I need someone to bounce ideas off of, as well as someone who can check my work a little chapter by chapter, and can possibly even Brit pick for me. That would be fantastic.


	4. Undeniable Torture

I, undeniably, had a lot of fun with this.

* * *

John is writing up medical reports at St Barts when his mobile chimes. Distracted, he picks it up in his right hand and opens the message, mouthing the medical jargon as he jots everything down into a vaguely intelligent sounding paper. When he finds a good stopping point, he glances at the screen.

**John. Where did you go?**  
**SH**

Shaking his head, the doctor's tongue slips between his lips.

**_Work. I'm working. I do work, remember?_**

**Yes, but when did you leave?**  
**SH**

_**I've been gone since before 8 this morning. You were staring out the window.**_

**I didn't notice.  
SH**

_**That you were staring out the window?**_

**That you were leaving, John.  
SH**

John can hear the exact tone Sherlock would say this in, he can see the way he would roll his eyes, the exact expression on his face. He smirks briefly.

_**I said goodbye at least 3 times.**_

**Irrelevant, you didn't make yourself heard, so there was no point in doing so.  
SH**

_**Are you always such a distracting prick? I have work.**_

**We can talk about my prick once you've seen it. And if you had actual work, you would have silenced your mobile by now.  
SH**

A heat wave seems to wash over him until John is positive his face is scarlet. He frowns reproachfully at the screen, almost as if Sherlock will feel the look on the other end.

**_Since when do you-_** _ah, no,_ [_delete, delete, delete_], _**Excuse me? **yes, good. _[_send_]

**Normally when you need to ignore me, you silence your phone. It never works, of course, because I still bombard you with the same number of messages until you answer the initial question, but you never fail to do it.**  
**SH**

_**No, the part before that.**_

**Ah. The part about my prick.  
Sh**

_Jammy bastard_. John can almost see the smile on Sherlock's face._** Yes, that.** **What exactl-**_

Mid-text, his phone chimes again.

_This cannot possibly be my life_, John thinks, jamming his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes.

**Please John.**  
**SH**

_**Don't you have a case?**_

**I solved it hours ago. As fate would have it, the body was irrelevant. Put there purposely to distract from the other clues in the room. Black fibers, found behind the door. A message written with a tryglyceride on the wall. Only seen with a UV light. Now that I can look back on it, everything was so obvious, I have no idea why it took me so long to solve. I also have no idea why no one had thought to bring in a UV light as soon as the body was found. I swear, it astounds me how imbicilic Anderson can be at times.  
SH  
**

His mouth opens and closes for a moment.

**_Fantastic. Can I get back to work?_**

**You can do whatever you wish. But you would rather be home.  
SH**

John knows he shouldn't ask. He _really_ shouldn't, but he does.

_**And why is that?**_

**You know well enough, John.**  
**SH**

He wipes his face, eyes cast heavenward, begging for advice. _Apparently_, even _God_ doesn't have a manual for Sherlock Holmes.

**_I can't just leave._**

**I never said anything of the sort. I only mentioned that you would rather be here. With me. Alone. Now don't you have medical reports to finish?  
SH**

_Oh, you're a bad man, Mister Holmes. You're a bad, bad man._

* * *

John had been blue-balled for the past week and a half, ever since Mrs Hudson had come in with news of another damn case. Sherlock had been thinking of nothing else since then, and it was starting to drive the doctor up a wall. It wasn't necessarily that his friend (if he could even call him that anymore) was completely involved in the case, he was always like that. No, it was the fact that this time Sherlock would call him out on things that the infuriating bastard normally didn't notice.

_"John, do I need to remind you that my face is up here?" _

_"John, you're going to set fire to my trousers." _

_"John, close your mouth." _

_"John, not now. Quiet your thoughts, I'm working."_

It hadn't helped that seemingly overnight Sherlock had turned himself into pure sex. Maybe it was because John had come within _inches_ of getting what he had dreamt about almost since he met the man. Maybe it was because everything was out in the open now. Whatever it was, it was hell, and now that Sherlock had finally solved his mystery, he was torturing him at work.

His cock twitches in his trousers as the image of the dark-haired man, all curves and rose marble and dilated pupils, comes to mind.

_Fuck._

_Sherlock has no idea what he's in for._

* * *

No sex this chapter. What about the next? Or does Sherlock get a case? Maybe they'll just update their blogs, or John will find a new girlfriend in a chatroom and Sherlock will revert back to his shy, alarmed by sex, virgin self_._


	5. A Bit of Alright Lovemaking

_11/24/12: Do you know how hard it is to write a painfully heterosexual army doctor recently gone bi going down on an asexual virgin consulting detective recently gone gay while watching 'Too Cute!'? It's this show where they show puppies and kittens just frolicking and being adorable... something you shouldn't watch while..._  
_...yeah. Anyways, thanks for everything you guys! Reading, following, favoriting, reviewing - reviews are my crack, Jesus, I love you all... especially my two guests who have reviewed so far!_

_**tammy** - don't worry sugar biscuit, John won't be getting a new girlfriend this chapter. Or the next. Or ever._  
_**Guest** (creative name by the way, excuse my sarcasm here, love) - I think I've answered yours already..._

_11/25/12: So I meant to post yesterday. I thought it was only going to take me a half hour max to finish. Nope. I got distracted by my own thought sequence. My apologies._

Promises: Demanding!Watson, Teasing!Sherlock, and two men in bed.

* * *

John isn't two steps into the room before the door is kicked shut behind him. Mid-step, he manages to do four things, then pivots on his heel to the bedroom off of the kitchen.

He abandons his coat, drops his bag and kicks off his shoes, all the while throwing a, "Trousers off," at Sherlock.

Bewildered, the dark-haired man sits up straight, at attention. "Pardon?"

"Did I stutter? Trousers off." Watson is in no mood for his shenanigans.

"Yes sir, Captain Watson." Sherlock rolls his eyes and lays back on the couch, eyes closed, fingers steepled.

John feels a muscle twitch under his eye. Taking a calming breath, he pulls out his phone and reads the four additional texts that he had received on the tube aloud.

"_'John, what on earth is taking so long?', 'John, why aren't you here?', 'The flat is so quiet John. Do you want to make a ruckus?', 'Would it please you to know that I've been thinking about you all afternoon?'_"

Sherlock sends him an innocent look. "I didn't send those."

"You're a _fucking_ tease. You're lucky you have those cheekbones and that arse."

A feathery brow raises over a pale forehead. "What about my arse?"

_Of course._ "Only that you're scrawny as a _fucking_ broomstick, and yet somehow you manage to have a perfectly plush arse like _that_. It's absolutely _obscene_, you narcissistic _prick_." The words are harsh, but sound admiring. A better description would be "sexually frustrated".

"My, that mouth. You know, your talents are being wasted as a physician. Perhaps you should focus your skills elsewhere."

John doesn't bother saying anything - he won't win. Instead, as Sherlock smiles to himself, the blond stalks to his side and sits there, on his haunches. Sherlock turns his head slowly, and John takes a moment to study his eyes. He's never given a concrete colour to them, since they tend to be an array of iridescent silvers and blues and greens at once. Glittering like a dragonfly's wings as it flits about in the summer. The distance between their noses is minimal.

"Is there anything I can do to move this along?" John breathes quietly, and his friend rolls his eyes again, parting his pink lips.

_Too fucking bad_, John thinks as he pulls that gorgeous face towards him, capturing those lips with his teeth. He nibbles just hard enough to redden them, then lets go. He barely has time to inhale before pale fingers are clutching at his shirt, dragging him back in. John can already feel his zipper straining, which is absolutely sad. How in the name of Crucified Christ does this man manage to get him so hot by barely doing anything?

"Definitely not heterosexual," Sherlock murmurs against his mouth, as if he's tracking the other man's thoughts.

"The last time I checked I was, but somebody should_ really_ remind my dick." His tan hand wanders somewhere from Sherlock's sternum to trail along his abdomen. "What about you? Last I checked you weren't anything."

Sherlock laughs once, more of an amused huff. "Certain events changed that."

John has moved to nibble along his friend's jawline at this point. "Oh yeah? Like what?"

A groan escapes the other man's lips as he lifts John's chin to look him in the eye. "Well, the rather important, necessary event of making your acquaintance at St Barts." He places a soft kiss on the other man's forehead. "The next was talking with you an Angelo's."

John's skin prickles excitedly where Sherlock's fingers are caressing him. "The talk at Angelo's? What about it?"

"We were discussing my sexual orientation and whether or not I had a girlfriend. When I replied that girls aren't my area, you asked if I had a boyfriend." Sherlock graces him with a real, Sherlock smile, and John feels his heart skip a beat. "I honestly didn't think about my answer then, I gave you the answer I had given everyone, but much to my own confusion, I found my thoughts were quite contradictory to my words."

John waits, barely daring to breath. His fingertips are tracing small circles over his friend's chest distractedly.

"I believe my exact train of thought was, 'No, I don't seem to have any significant relationship at the moment, but that can be arranged.' Then if memory serves me right, which it does, my next thought was, 'Perhaps it's time to have an affair.'"

"Mmm, naughty man, cheating on your work like this," John manages before his friend, impatient bastard that he is, has decided that the talking needs to stop. Now.

Long arms wrap around John's kneeling figure, forcing him closer, and white teeth nip at the doctor's neck before moving in on his mouth. John is a little more than surprised to feel a greedy tongue slipping past his lips to rub against his own. He supposes he should be embarrassed by the noise that he makes, but frankly he couldn't give less of a damn about it at the moment. Instead, he takes Sherlock by the wrists and pulls him up off of the couch. His more-than-friend is on his feet immediately, his hand clutched in the doctor's as John leads them determinedly to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock is the one to kick the door shut this time, and John presses him against it, mouths melded together, hands first shoving off his satin dressing gown, then fingers fumbling at the hem of his pale blue t-shirt. The detective lifts his arms and pulls away just long enough for the shirt to be thrown across the room before he snaps back like an elastic rubberband. He makes quick work of John's maroon button down, nearly popping off the buttons in his haste. Secretly, he wonders if John purposely didn't wear a jumper for this very reason.

In a hurry now, Sherlock's fingers scrabble blindly with John's belt as his tongue fight's the doctor's for the right to explore that hot mouth he's been infatuated with since the first time they kissed. Just as John moves to help him, he manages to finally undo the buckle, then proceeds to undress the man in front of him, leaving him in his conservative grey pants. The blond squirms a bit under his critical eye, almost uncomfortably, before Sherlock graces him with an approving smile. John sends him a predatory grin in response.

A gasp escapes Sherlock's lips as John leaves a trail of kisses from his cheeks and lips down to his sternum. From there, the doctor lightly glides his lips down his chest and abdomen, barely touching, just enough to make Sherlock's sensitive skin tingle and his muscles twitch in acknowledgement. John places another kiss just above the hem of the detective's pyjama bottoms before tugging them slowly down. Sherlock wriggles out of them, leaving him in his own emerald green pants, and when John stands upright, he dodges away and saunters to the bed, laying down on his side and facing the doctor.

He rests his dark curls against the inside of his elbow, draws up his knee. His eyes flash mischievously.

"John, 'I want you to draw me like one of your French girls'," he murmurs in an undeniably perfect impersonation of a certain red-head.

John grins uncontrollably, made almost giddy by the comment. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. "I thought you would have deleted that..." he trails off, crawling onto the bed and pushing Sherlock over onto his back. He sits lightly over the other man's hips, smiling.

Sherlock shrugs. "I couldn't. I never delete anything that pertains to you."

John takes a moment to let that sink in. He feels a mile high right now, and nothing can send him crashing to the ground. "You don't?" he can't help but ask, but it comes out teasing, instead of a dire question in need of conformation.

He recieves a shake of the head either way. "Never."

"Well," he whispers, lowering himself until they're nose to nose, " you make a_ lovely_ Kate Winslet." Sherlock smirks and makes a point of stretching out luxuriously, throwing his head back so that his neck arches, showing of an ungodly beautiful expanse of gorgeous alabaster neck. John licks his lips, not realising it until his tongue it back in his mouth. "But I prefer pale consulting detectives with brilliant minds and attractive jugulars."

It strikes him as odd just as it leaves his mouth. He's never been attracted to anyone's jugular before. Nor anyone's sternum. Or the way they rub their erection against his, but he supposes there's a first time for everything.

He receives another smirk before the detective pushes him backwards. John follows along, allowing himself to be sprawled on his back. The doctor only feels himself get a little nervous when Sherlock begins pulling down his pants. He swallows lightly as they're tossed beside the bed, and he's left naked on the sheets. A gentle finger traces the outline of his erection on his stomach, making John bite his lip almost to the point to make it bleed._ Teasing prick. Bloody bastard, God, how can he possibly be a virgin?_

John begins tasting copper as Sherlock runs his finger along the doctor's shaft, tracing the veins, feeling the coarseness of the dark blond hair there. A pink tongue swipes over red lips and lingers there. Long fingers wrap up his cock and John hisses.

"_Sherlock_," is all he can manage before he's cut off by the sight of his friend.

Sherlock's normally pale face is dusted deep pink. His lips are painted red, parted slightly as he breathes. His pupils are blown across slivers of silver, so deep and black, John feels as if he's drowning in them.

Then, infinitely curious bastard that he is, Sherlock scoots up, propping himself heavily on one elbow, and flicks his tongue over the head of John's cock. The organ twitches slightly in the detective's hand, and John sharply sucks in a breath. A moment passes before Sherlock moves his hand up and down, experimenting, eyes locked on John, watching his every reaction. The doctor can feel his muscles tensing up at varying intervals and grabs his friend's wrist, agonisingly pulling the warm hand away. At a worried frown, he smiles, then pulls his friend into his lap.

"Now, if I let you do that, this will all be over too soon," he soothes, brushing Sherlock's fringe out of his eyes. "Now," he makes a point of gazing deep into those breath-taking eyes, "what do you want me to do to you?"

The answer is clear, but the doctor wants to hear him say it.

Sherlock swallows as he realises he's going to have to verbalise his thoughts. "I would like you to..." he weighs his words carefully. "Fuck me."

John keeps his mouth clamped shut, and but he feels the moan hit him in the back of his teeth. "Yeah? How?"

"You know damn well how," the virgin snaps, the words 'up the ass with your beautiful cock please' sounding so dirty in his mind that he can't bring himself to say them. The mere thought turns his cheeks crimson.

Lucky for him, John does know 'damn well how' he wants it. His face scrunches up as he tries to find a way around a critical problem however.

A small bottle appears out from Sherlock's pillow. He shakes it a little in his hand, offering it to John. At the questioning stare, the detective shrugs.

"I nicked it a week back out of your sock drawer." He pauses. "I'm clean, by the way."

A scoff bursts from John's mouth. "I know you are." He looks over the bottle - taking it - then back to his about-to-be-much-more-than-friend. "Me too."

"I know."

Dark blue eyes meet eclipsed silver, relaying a message. _'This is going to hurt.' 'And?' 'I don't want to hurt you.' 'You never hurt me.' '...Insufferable, demanding, brilliant prick.' 'Thank you.'_

With that, John sets aside the bottle of lube, focusing on the man in front of him. Slowly, he tugs off Sherlock's knickers, never breaking eye contact. The detective swallows, chest shuddering slightly. Once the flashy undergarments are off, John realises with a jolt that Sherlock is incredibly rock hard, his beautiful cock already red and leaking - and they've _barely_ done anything. He feels the familiar sensation of obscene noises crashing against his tightly locked teeth, then moves up to reclaim his territory in Sherlock's mouth.

The other man gasps as a hand lightly strokes, then fondles his sensitive prick. John smiles against Sherlock's lips. He's not necessarily the most experienced in pleasuring another man, so he does things that he likes himself. According to Sherlock, whatever he's doing is working.

Sherlock throws his head back against the pillow, one hand clutching John's good shoulder, the other's fingers tangling in his short blond hair. He hears a faint click in the distance over their ragged breathing, then another snap, but for once in his life, the detective disregards it. The insides of his thighs tingle and twitch, along with his cock, as John starts tugging more insistently. He feels his whole body shudder and quake as John's thumb runs teasingly over his sensitive head, rubbing against the leaking slit. He bucks, and John responds appropriately by setting up a rhythm.

The detective is coming undone - and fast. In fact, the pleasure is so overwhelming that he doesn't notice John doing something with a talented finger until it's already done. Something feels... different as he rocks his hips again, but not unpleasurable. He looks down, eyes widening at what he sees.

"_John, you sneaky, brilliant man_."

"Mmm," the doctor hums against his throat as Sherlock moans.

"_John, you_-"

"Yes."

The finger in his arse stretches him slowly, and it only begins to hurt when John cautiously adds a second finger. Sherlock hisses, and the doctor halts, ready to pull out, but a pale hand stops him.

"I'm _fine_," he groans, his normally smooth voice hitching slightly.

John weighs his options carefully. Keeping his mouth and hand on Sherlock, he works further into his detective until whimpers transform into moans.

"_Are you ready_?" he murmurs in Sherlock's ear once he feels considerably loose.

Sherlock is a panting mess below him, a rose marble statue. His muscles are rigid, and his normally marble skin is stained with pink: his lips, his chest, the insides of his thighs, his cock. He nods in earnest and spreads his legs further.

Oh, holy Christ on a biscuit, that's a beautiful sight. John feels his heart hammer even more insistently in his chest, and sees a similar staccato beating in Sherlock's neck. He bites his lip harshly as he lines himself up with his soon-to-be-lover's entrance. Lightly, he drapes himself over the body below him, using his knees and elbows as leverage. His hands cup Sherlock's face momentarily as he places a soft kiss to those perfect lips. He nods again, wrapping his long legs around the doctor's waist, and John slowly begins to push in.

At first, Sherlock feels numb. He barely feels John's forehead pressed against his, the thumb caressing his cheek. Then the pain starts, blooming from his arse and outwards. He sucks in a deep breath and holds it, teeth biting into his lip enough to make it bleed. The human body can only focus on the most intense pain. Re-route more, or an equal amount of pain somewhere else, somewhere you can handle it, and the pain where you can't should fade, if only slightly. Slightly is good, slightly is all he needs.

"John, bite my shoulder," he rushes, exhaling, then quickly drawing another.

John does as he's told.

"Harder."

John listens. Sherlock focuses on the teeth in his shoulder, the smell of John's hair. God, he smells amazing, like tea and cotton jumpers and fresh air and the cement after it rains and adult male arousal and it's just so _delicious_. He let's it intoxicate him, an arm curling around John's middle. When John's cock is in him halfway, the doctor stops and let's the man on the bottom adjust. Sherlock sighs. It's quickly cut off my a moan when John's mouth finds his again and a recently skilled hand finds his limp prick.

His doctor starts a pattern of stroking his shaft, sucking his tongue, moving his hips slowly. The searing pain starts to lessen, and Sherlock's mind begins to fog with arousal again. He can feel himself hardening to John's touch, hears the noises John makes as they set a rapidly increasing rhythm. At some point, John buries himself to the hilt and they both see white.

The both of them splutter their favourite word.

"_Fuck_."

As John pushes harder, deeper, he begins rubbing against something that makes Sherlock writhe and moan like nothing before, starting a chain reaction. The more noises Sherlock makes, the more earnestly John thrusts, making the detective keen even louder, and everything comes full circle.

John's breath hitches in his throat, and Sherlock's soon matches him. His movements are erratic as he presses their foreheads together, gazing back into those magnificent eyes. Silver eclipses gaze right back into ocean blue depths.

"_Sh- Sher- I-_"

Sherlock replies by placing a hand on the back of John's neck, pulling him in for a chaste kiss, and moving his hips faster. John's hand still's on his detective's cock, though his thumb is still running laps around the slit as the muscles in his abdomen tighten.

"_John_," Sherlock pants, a million messages voiced in a single word, a shared look.

That does it.

He releases himself with a cry, burying his face in Sherlock's neck, and the same high meets the other man moments later.

John collapses in a heap beside his trembling mess of a lover. He ignores the mess they've made, simply gathers up the boneless form of Sherlock in his arms. He places a tender kiss to dark curls as Sherlock rests his head on the doctor's chest, listening to the steadily calming beat of his heart, completely at ease. He sighs in content.

John waits for his lover to fall asleep in post-orgasmic bliss before telling Sherlock that he loves him.

His eyes are long closed before a sleepy "me too" is heard.

John falls asleep, happier than he's ever been, limbs tangled with his best friend who happens to be so much more.

* * *

_Oh dear... that was... _wow. _Hope you liked it my sweet babies!_

Ways I like to misspell 'Sherlock': Shurlock, Sherlok, Sherluck, Sherleck, Shir(e)lock, Shrlch (seriously, this happened)  
My favourite way to misspell 'Sherlock': Sher_lick_

_I kind of want to turn this into an actual story with a plot other than "fuck me into the mattress please" but I'm not really sure about it yet..._


	6. Sleepy Observations

_So, I've been told by a delightful little sugar crisp that I can make this into an actual story with a plot, but these are my requirements:_

_- No Moriarty  
- No broken hearts  
- No one dies_

_...  
Challenge accepted._

_This particular chapter is dedicated to the same sugar crisp that gave me some restrictions about how this is going to turn out. Said sugar crisp has also been chatting with me and has been lovely by putting up with my incessant warbling while I write this chapter. Thank you love! Hope you find the rest of this to your liking!_

* * *

When John finally stirrs awake, a sleepy yawn stretching his lips, the first thing he sees are a pair of beautiful eyes, back to their normal appearance. John takes the time to notice every little detail. He knows Sherlock is staring right back at him, but frankly he isn't lucid enough to give a damn.

God, where does he even start. He supposes he should note their half-lidded, sleepy look that John's only seen once before. He takes in the dark lashes, the charming little creases near the corners of his eyes, how at the moment they're so soft and warm. Like liquid silver. But, no not at all like that. Their texture is like that of mercury, when the schools used to let you hold it in your hand as a solid, but soon enough it became a palpable liquid, just from the gentle heat of your hand, sliding about in your palm like it was alive. Their colour, however, it that of an alexandrite. Shining, flashing blues and greens and silvers, depending on the light. Currently, in the dim room, the sun just rising through the crack in the curtains, they're a pale, tame blue, shining despite the scant light. John smiles, wondering if anyone has gone this in-depth just about someone's eyes before. He doesn't know Sherlock has been doing the same since they've met, archiving how the mysterious dark blue eyes look in all circumstances, lighting, emotions, _everything_.

A smirk appears on Sherlock's face, and John takes another moment to appreciate that before it disappears. The detective sighs, for once he may be considering falling back asleep, and John is just about to follow suite. Sherlock's soft breath caresses his chest from where his pretty head is tucked under John's chin. A warm, slender hand sprawls over his abdomen, and the doctor places his own over it.

Something chimes from the sitting room.

John groans quietly to himself.

Sherlock stiffens.

For a moment, just a moment, John dares to hope the man is just going to lie there and sleep some more, that this moment will last just a tad longer and they can deal with it when the sun has risen properly. But that's not Sherlock Holmes. The detective in him won't let the curious, mystery-seeking blighter ignore it _just this once_. He runs his hand up John's chest to cup his face for a moment before climbing out of bed. He paces lightly across the room to his abandoned pyjama bottoms. John admires the sight of his arse before the thin cotton bottoms cover it.

As his lover leaves the room, John throws his arms over his eyes and let's out a huff of air, but it's all good-natured. And even though he just wanted to lie there with him just a bit longer, he knows he would rather Sherlock stay Sherlock.

A call floats through the open door from the other room. "John!"

He sits up, rubs his face. "Yeah, love?" _Hm, _love_._ He could get used to calling him that.

Sherlock could get used to hearing it. "Get dressed. We'll be going to Manchester today."

* * *

_My new favourite phrase: "You chuffing baskets!"_

Yeah, sorry, really short chappy this time, but the next will be longer, I promise.

_Also: next chappy may or may not be in Sherlock's point of view, depending on how high my confidence levels are. _


	7. Distracted Deductions

Okay, now for developement of the actual plot. I'm not too terribly good at this, but I'll give it a go.

* * *

"So what's happened?"

Sherlock is snapped out of his daze, and glances down at his friend. He's wearing a jumper today. Better yet, John is wearing his _favourite_ jumper. Normally, Sherlock doesn't bother having a favourite anything - aside when it comes to murder. Then he prefers serial killers. Especially if they're antisocial and happen to have delusions of grandeur. But when it comes to trivial things like clothing, he tends not to have too many strong opinions. But there's just something about _this_ jumper, something about _this particular_ cable-knit jumper that his doctor seems so fond of. It's plain, a neutral oatmeal colour, and old. Baggy, stretched, reaching the end of it's life. He loves it - probably because John wears it so often-

John suddenly coughs, and the detective's thoughts are successfully re-routed to the right track. He blinks once, thinking of how to summarize the events of last night justly. Apparently, he takes too long.

"Why are we at the Manchester Cathedral?"

_Ah, yes._ "Late last night, a scream was heard not far from here. No one called it in, screams in a big city? Nothing new. The next day, a woman happened to walk past a young man seemingly sleeping against the wall of the cathedral. It's not entirely odd for anyone to be milling about outside this time of year, but when she investigated further, she realised he was dead. Authorities were notified shortly after. Unfortunately, since most law enforcement have no idea what the hell they're doing, a friend of Lestrade's contacted him, who in turn, contacted me."

"And the body?"

Sherlock lifts up the yellow police tape in front of him, gesturing the doctor under it. "Perhaps we should find out."

* * *

Mmm. His scarf. It smells like chemicals and sweat and wind and rain and everything possible that Sherlock has worn it through. Smoke, adrenaline, even flowers - you name it, it's probably laced with the permanent scent of the piece of striped blue fabric. As of late, a few more scents have been added, overpowering the others, and highly on the border between euphoric and irritably distracting:

_- John's chamomile tea_  
_- John's detergent_  
_- John's sweat_  
_- John_  
_- sex_

No doubt, all but the last have been there this whole time, but Sherlock has never really noticed them before. Now he breathes in deeply, exhaling through his mouth, watching the small cloud slowly disappear before an elbow prods him in the ribs. He looks accusingly at an expectant looking John, who in turn nods his blond head at the man in front of him. Sherlock glances up. The officer does not look amused.

Blushing slightly, then accosting himself with a special sort of venom, he begins his deduction. "Obviously, it's a young man. Light tan, not too obvious, and not above the wrists. Just joined the military," Sherlock drones, standing to his feet. "One sibling, divorced parents, no girlfriend. No other significant relationships. No one noticed he was gone. No ID, either. Not from here. He was drugged late last night and when he awoke, he was attacked - lacerations are consistent with those of a scalpel, almost surgical precision. Stitches were done by a meticulous hand, I'd say surgeon most likely. I'd say this was all done while he was alive and lucid."

"Poor bastard."

Sherlock simply nods. _Poor bastard indeed._

"But why would he cut him open just to sew him back up? And then dump him?"

"Torture. Then by doing so, placing the body in plain sight, no one would notice right away. So at first glance it would appear that nothing was wrong. That it was just one more person sitting quietly in the fall weather. There's not much blood, so it's obvious that he was cut open somewhere else. And if you look here," Sherlock kneels beside the body again, lifting up his thin shirt, "you can see where the blood settled twice."

"Yes, but what's the motive? Who is he?" The officer is the one to ask this time. "And who did it?"

Sherlock shrugs, obviously bothered. "I wish I knew." He feels dark blue eyes on him.

"Any theories?"

He smirks. "A few." A very, very few.

* * *

That's about all I have in me for now my little sugar lovelies. I need to plan out just what exactly is going on here so I can write the rest as best I can. Stay tuned, thank you for everything! Sorry for another short chappy, but for some reason I can't write beautiful, mind-numbingly brilliant long ones...

_11/26/12: I'm so excited! Seeing Rise of the Guardians today - Hugh Jackman and Jude Law are in it! Not to mention it's about Jack Frost and Christmas! It's a good day, my lovelies. It's a good day._


	8. You've Got Another One

This chapter is just dedicated to all of you beautiful people. Without you, I'd be nowhere, and this story would have stopped... a while ago.

* * *

John looks up from his paper to see Sherlock lying in his chair, legs draped over the back, head resting on the floor. His slender fingers are rubbing circles around his temples. His normally pale face is slowly being stained red. An annoyed huff leaves his lips. John decides to do something.

Prodding him in the shoulder with his foot, John sets aside the sports section. Nothing interesting anyway. "What's got your knickers in a knot, love?"

Sherlock sighs, tucking his head in and rolling to his feet. He turns, sitting on the floor, and tangles a fist in his hair. "This case."

John raises a brow. "Yeah? What's going through that brilliant head of yours?"

"Everything. The circumstances, the body, every bit of information possible. I can't stand it."

"Not knowing?"

He pauses. "Exactly," the detective huffs reluctantly.

John feels a sympathetic smirk quirk his lips. It's a typical case: Sherlock hasn't been eating, sleeping, resting, and he's been driving himself crazy. And it's only been two days. It didn't help that the autopsy results were sent to them not even an hour ago.

"Why would he remove the heart- _just the heart_? A trademark? Possibly, but there's only one body!" Sherlock has his forehead pressed to his knees at this point. "If only there were fingerprints, footprints, _some sort of evidence_... hair, fibers, there was _nothing_! How can there be no evidence at all _anywhere_?"

"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

"Come here." John stands to his feet and walks to the coffee table. To his surprise, Sherlock gets up and follows him over. Gently, the doctor pushes the taller man onto the couch, while he, for once, uses a piece of furniture for something other than it's intended use. Taking a seat, he spreads his knees just enough for Sherlock's long legs to slot between them, bringing the two nose to nose.

_God, how have I managed to befriend a beautiful, extraordinary man like this? Let alone fall in love with him? How have I managed to betwitch him into loving me back?_

And Sherlock does love him - he can see it in his eyes, the way his attitude changes with him. Not too much, but enough. Hell, here Sherlock is sitting in front of him, pupils dilated, heart beating just a tick faster than normal. Anyone who's ever met the cold, detatched, infuriating man would never believe it, but John does. He's experiencing it first hand, he's deducing exactly what's in front of him. You don't live with a painfully observant, outspoken, tactless blighter like him and not learn how to properly deduce what's in your face screaming for attention.

"You should take a break."

"You know that's out of the question. My processes require that-"

"That what, Sherlock? You run yourself into the ground?"

"-that I-"

"Ah, no. Not this time."

"John-"

The doctor holds up a hand. "No, don't 'John' me, with your pretty eyes rolling back into your head like that. Don't give me those wet puppy eyes either, and _none of that_ lip!"

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, then decides against it.

"Don't even think about sulking in the couch either. I know it's just an excuse to show off your backside."

That cupid's bow mouth in front of him purses in mild annoyance. John's own lips twitch in amusement.

"Come on now love," John whispers, placing a hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer. "Don't be like that."

Their lips meet. Sherlock doesn't complain.

John does, however, when footsteps sound on the stair. He stands to his feet and stalks to the other side of the room, crossing his arms and leaning irritably against the mantle.

As it turns out, Lestrade walks through the door. He looks two parts perplexed, three parts bothered. "Sherlock. I got another ring. Lancaster this time."

Sherlock is up immediately at attention, listening eagerly. "Another church?"

"Lancaster Cathedral."

"Another _body_?"

"Yeah. Will you come?"

His lips quirk mildly in the corners. "I'll be right behind you."

Lestrade gives him a long look, then turns on his heel and rushes down the stairs. It's not his jurisdiction, but it may just be his division. He's going this time.

As soon as the detective inspector is gone, Sherlock dashes to his room to get dressed and grab his coat. John pulls on his own jacket, slyly nicking the other man's scarf as he ties his laces. Sherlock is either to distracted, or too eager to care.

"Oh it's Christmas. Just in time."

* * *

By the time they arrive at the cathedral, Lestrade is already there, talking with an old friend. Sherlock is practically humming in excitement over the prospect of finding more clues for his case. John has Sherlock's scarf wrapped around his neck, almost over his mouth. It takes all his self-control to keep himself from burying his nose in it. Or throwing it around Sherlock's neck and using it as leverage for some grade-A snogging, but he can save that for a later date.

"Are you seeing a pattern yet?" he murmurs to the man next to him.

Sherlock holds up the police tape and follows him under it.

It's the same scenario, only the body was found inside this time. Man with blond hair and blue eyes, heart removed perfectly, little to no blood. Everything was identical to the first body. Except for the deduction.

"Man, recently left his girlfriend. Came here on a small pension, used to be in the army."

What that could possibly mean, no one can tell. There is one thing, however, that worries Sherlock.

"John," he whispers once Lestrade is distracting the other investigator. "This is obviously a serial murderer. Removing the heart and moving the body is a trademark."

"And?"

"_And_," Sherlock stresses, "he seems to be focusing on white males, all having served in the military. _You_ are an ex-army doctor. _You_ could be next."

John hadn't thought of that.

This could turn out to be interesting.

* * *

_Oh yay, this all sounds like a blast. Also lovelies, I've recently started a Mystrade story I'm pretty passionate about, so if I fail to post here for a while, that's what I'm working on instead. If you get really impatient, you can send me a heated message or something and I'll get a new chappy right out._

_Thanks for everything, loves!_


	9. John?

Promises: Consulting-Detective-on-Army-Doctor action. Well, a bit. Also, another one!

* * *

Their next case comes at the worst possible time.

Sherlock is mid-thrust - John had let him top this time, and after over a half-hour of inexperienced prodding, the doctor's virgin-tight arse was ready for a good pounding. John is sitting practically in Sherlock's lap, nipping into that gorgeous neck while his detective pants heavily into his own. The most delicious noises are flying from their throats, when they hear it. Sherlock's mobile is ringing in the other room. They ignore it. Then John's starts screaming at them. They ignore that too. When the landline downstairs rings, they both become a bit concerned, and Sherlock's hips begin to slow-

"No- don't-" John manages to cry, nearly there. He's clinging to those pale shoulders now, practically writhing. Sherlock presses his lips to the blond's jugular, then his lips, frowning slightly. Footsteps are on the stairs, and a woman's voice is murmuring quietly. John bites his lip as musician's fingers find his cock and start working. He bucks once and lets a quiet yelp out. This prompts Sherlock himself to moan in the back of his throat, so deep it's almost inaudible. He nearly stops, to John's disdain, when a hand knocks on their closed (and locked) door.

"_Mrs Hudson_-"

"Can wait two more minutes."

And she does.

* * *

John answers the door this time, ignoring the sensation of his arse trying to revert to its earlier tightness, sporting two-day-old jeans and a half-buttoned shirt. He smiles, willing his ears not to turn bright scarlet. Judging by the heat, they've betrayed him.

"Another one. Gloucester this time, Lestrade has already gone - oh, isn't all this business _awful_!"

"Not for Sherlock it isn't," John grins, watching as Mrs Hudson turns on her heel, wishing them luck and asking them to pick up some groceries while they're out. The two men won't remember.

"Sherlock! Gloucester! Lestrade's left already, so hurry up with your shower, I need to get in too!"

"You could always join me!" comes the smart-arse reply.

John really doesn't have a comeback for that. So he does. _All business, John, keep it all business_, he tells himself.

He fails.

* * *

Blond, male. On temporary leave from the army, was recently appointed captain of his brigade. Two weeks away from being sent back to Afghanistan. Heart, removed. Blood, next to none. Body, relocated to the cathedral. What it was with this killer, hearts, and holy ground, Sherlock has no idea. The locations seem to be picked almost at random - there really isn't a pattern to be found, besides the state of the bodies. The detective is starting to really worry now, and it shows in his features after the crime scene turns up like the other two - no evidence, save the corpse. At all. And if Sherlock Holmes can't find it, there's nothing to be found. It wracks his nerves and he's been getting increasingly difficult to live with.

"Where are you going?" he asks the next day. It's nearly nine in the morning, and the detective is still puzzling over the case.

"Um. Work. Remember, I took last week off after the Lancaster incident. You practically begged me not to go in," John replies.

Sherlock looks away, lip curling slightly. "I didn't _beg_."

The doctor smiles, brushing his lover's dark hair away from his face. "Yes. You. Did." He punctuates each word with a kiss to Sherlock's pale forehead. "And if I want to receive a pay cheque any time soon, and _keep my job_, I'd better go in at some point."

Pouting slightly, the other man looks intently into his hazel eyes. "After this case?" he inquires simply. It really does bother him, the thought of John leaving, _alone_. The blond can tell Sherlock is considering following him to St Barts', but John will have none of it.

"I'll be back later tonight, alright love?" Their foreheads are pressed together firmly, and John's hand is rubbing reassurative circles on his detective's neck.

Sherlock weighs his options carefully here, then consents. He captures John's lips possesively, then murmurs, dangerously low. "You better be home before eighteen-hundred. I mean it John, not a tick after, or the Queen gets notified."

Chuckling as he pulls away and leaves John throws, "Oh, give Mycroft my regards if it comes to that," over his shoulder. It's meant as a joke.

Sherlock in no way finds it funny.

* * *

Sherlock spends the rest of the day face-first in the couch, just letting his mind run laps while he listens to the rain pummeling the window. It's quiet, besides traffic, but the silence in the flat is being awfully obnoxious about it.

As the sun sets, Sherlock begins to worry. John is nearly an hour late, with no word at all from him. The detective begins pacing back and forth anxiously, mobile in hand. He only has to wait a few minutes longer before it starts ringing.

"John?" he asks as soon as the speaker is near his mouth.

"Yeah Sherlock. Sorry I'm late, some _idiot_ ate a whole bag of sweets without realising there were bits of peanut in them- anyway, Lestrade called, there's been another one. Winchester this time." The wind howls in the background, and it sounds like his doctor is pulling up his collar to shield himself from the rain.

Sherlock found this rather odd, especially since Lestrade hadn't phoned him first. "Winchester?"

"Yeah. Greg said since you never answer and since we're 'attached to the hip' he just rang me. _Actually_, he's pulling up _now_- this one is supposed to be different, _this one's alive_ Sherlock. We'll meet you there, yeah love?"

Of course, Sherlock jumps at that, grin spreading ear to ear. "Yeah, laters."

* * *

_Hm. What happens next?_


	10. The Game

Oh god. Here we are. _Shit_, what will happen, I know about as little as you do! Hope you find it satisfactory, loves. May Godtiss be with you always.

* * *

_**We've spotted the killer in the cathedral. The crypt. Where the hell are you?**_

**On my way**  
**SH**

The traffic is horrendous, and Sherlock is quickly losing his patience. John is at the cathedral, alone, save the bumbling law-force and Lestrade, with the killer having all the fun! He might not even get there in time to catch the perp.

**_Hurry up will you?_**

Fed up, Sherlock finally throws a few notes at the cabbie and pops open the door, immediately cutting between cars and onto the pavement. A map of the city flies in front of his inner eye, and he starts running. It only takes him fifteen more minutes to slow to a trot on the grounds, panting slightly.

He should have known something was wrong by the lack of flashing police cars, yellow tape, and crowded observers. It _is_ incredibly late, however. The sky is black, no moon, no stars. There's nothing, no one, it's absolutely abandoned. Ignoring it, Sherlock slowly walks towards the door, eyes open. Even when he slips inside, nothing. There's absolutely nothing, _nothing_. **Now** Sherlock is on high-alert. This isn't normal. It's quiet,_ too quiet_, specifically the quiet before the storm. He considers calling out, to John mainly, but thinks better of it, instead keeping his steps light and shifting painfully slow to the crypt. Even then, every step he makes sounds like thunder in the silence.

His last steps echo around him when he reaches the crypt. It's dark, almost black, the shadows are grey smudges in the distance. Sound II seems to stand impossibly tall from his place, accosting the detective seemingly for disturbing his peace. Something is huddled by his base, barely noticeable. Unless, of course, you're Sherlock Holmes. A feeling of numb panic starts to seep through him when that huddled something appears to be about the same size and shape as a certain army doctor of his...

Sherlock approaches, eyes adjusting gradually to the dim. A dark something is pooling around the figure, and it's definitely not water. Kneeling next to it, a lump forms in his throat when he realises it's a greying blond. A light shines suddenly beside the lifeless body, bright and blinding. The detective picks it up cautiously, feeling the familiar weight of John's phone in his hand.

**_You realise what this is now, yes?_**

**What the hell have you done to him?**

**_Now now, Sherlock. Haven't you figured that out yet? Just look in front of you..._  
**

Terrified, furious grey eyes latch onto the figure in front of him - slouched over, legs slightly bent. Bathing the body in the light of the mobile, it soon becomes obvious that this is_ not_ John. Whether or not this means his lover is actually alright remains to be seen, but for now he lets out a relieved huff of air. A chuckle reaches him across the room.

"Where the hell are you! Show yourself!"

A torch flashes from one of the darkest corners, waving about wildly. It finally comes to rest on a man's face, harsh light outlining his otherwise handsome features. He has olive-looking skin, dark eyes, and dark hair. His mouth curls at the corner mockingly.

"_Salve, Signor Holmes_."

Sherlock makes a face involuntarily, intrigued, and curiosity gets the better of him for the moment. "An Italian... What the hell are you doing here?"

A derisive smirk. "Oh, isn't it obvious,_ dolcezza_?"

Sneering, Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. "Where. Is. John."

"All in good time. For now, I want to know if you have any idea what this is."

Well dressed, dark eyes, taunting smile. Enjoys games,_ is playing one now_. All other details point to one obvious fact. "You work for Moriarty, don't you?"

"Very good,_ gattino_._ Molto bene_." His mouth contorts further, like an ugly gash. It bleeds masochistic delight.

"Enough with the terms of endearment."

That same damned shit-eating grin. His eyes seem to glow in the dark. "If you wish. Now, I believe you are here for the serial murderer. Or are you beginning to long for that army doctor of yours?"

"I swear to- _If you_-!"

"Now now,_ Signor Holmes_. Doctor Watson is... unharmed for the moment. Don't tempt me. Let's have a little chat,_ si_?"

* * *

"This is a game. Just a game Moriarty's having you play, isn't it?"

"_Si_." The Italian pauses, considering. "And I'm winning."

Sherlock leans back against a stone pillar behind the other man (who is seated in a small chair) , and gazes around the Epiphany Chapel. He chooses not to respond.

"Come now,_ Signor Holmes_, what game are we playing? What has all my work led up to? Have you figured it out?" He takes the detective's silence as a reply. "Come on, you've had plenty of time, plenty of the dead. What could all of it have _possibly_ been for?"

"Everything was a trap. To lure me here. To the game." Sherlock crosses his arms. His eyes rest on the stained-glass window above them.

Standing to his feet, the Italian motions for Sherlock to follow. He does. "Continue please, _gattino_. You're doing so well." They walk past the Holy Sepulchre Chapel, from the Reliquary chapel, to rest at St Swithun's Shrine. The man fingers his long coat, bright eyes focusing on the portraits on the wall ahead of him. He doesn't know who they are, churches and saints have never been his area, not really.

"You chose military men - blond hair, dominantly blue eyes, not much family to speak of - purposely. You tried to match them as closely as possible to John. To make me worry, to make me reckless. What I don't understand is why you cut out those men's hearts and moved their bodies."

"Ah, _gattino_. He's your _amore_,_ si_? The symbol of love is the heart, and I ripped it out. Does that tell you anything worth while?" Sherlock feels his jaw tighten at the ominous light flashing in those black eyes. "I moved the bodies to manipulate the scenes around them to my liking. To frustrate you, specifically."

"But what was the meaning behind the cities, the cathedrals?"

This time, it's not a smile, but a long laugh. "_Mio Dio_, _Signor Holmes_, why does _eveything_ need to have deeper meaning with you? Always so complicated. Can nothing be simple? I placed my finger on a map and chose the cities I touched. Though using the cathedrals, I will admit, was a taunt. You're not a religious man I take it. Why not make you pray?"

As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, it was working. "Then what is it? How do I play your game?"

Wiping his eyes, then placing his hands in his pockets, the nameless Italian turns on his heel and saunters off. The smirk is back. He says one thing, throwing it over his shoulder amicably. "You suffer."

Sherlock takes a step to follow when the screaming starts. He panicks immediately, knowing it's the last thing he should do. "_John_!" He doesn't receive anything in response, and now everything is quiet. He turns to the other man. "Why! What the hell is the point!"

"Because, _dolcezza_. He just _likes_ to see you suffer. To see you squirm. He did tell you he would 'burn the heart out of you', no?"

* * *

_So, this was going to be the last chapter. Apparently not. Sorry for not updating in a while loves. I had to plan some things out, look up the cathedral, etc etc. Think about my Italian. Hm, is John okay? What is going to happen! God, really I don't even know. Let's find out soon, shall we?_

A list of definitions:  
_Signor_ - The equivalent of "Mr"  
_Salve_ - formal hello  
_Dolcezza_ - equivalent of "sweetheart"  
_Gattino_ - "Little cat"  
_Molto Bene_ - "Very good"  
_Mio Dio_ - "My God"  
_Amore_ - love


	11. Burning Numbness

_Sorry for the delay. My friend jumped off of a bridge. And died. ...So yeah. I'm just gonna take this opprotunity to tell you that if you ever do anything stupid like that, I will personally hunt you down and destroy you with a fire axe. Pass that on to your friends too, and your friend's friends. Trust me, suicide isn't worth it, and it's not the way out. Plus, think of all those you've left behind. What are they going to do with themselves now? I love you my beautiful readers. Stay sane. And alive. For my sanity and others. _

Also, somewhere below, I noticed the tense changed. I'm not pissing around with it at the moment, since it's kind of a gradual change, and it's easier for me not to. I do apologise, however.

_Guest: Why thank you my lovely!_

* * *

Sherlock makes a face as a pit opens up in his stomach. The Italian smirks.

"Don't be like that. There is a chance you can win this game." The detective is just about to ask how when the bastard speaks. "Here is how you play. Objective: Find Doctor Watson. Hint: He's somewhere in Winchester Cathedral. If you can find him, you keep him, and you both walk free. But," of course there's a 'but', there's _always_ a 'but', "you have three minutes."

The detective feels a shock run through him, followed by hot fire. The nerve of this bastard! How _dare_ he-!

"Now come. The game will start soon enough."

* * *

His heart hammers in his chest as his pulse throbs in his throat. Reluctantly, he follows the man to the approximate center of the cathedral. His thoughts are racing, and every little thing they pass prompts him to wonder if John is hidden somewhere. It doesn't even cross his mind why he cares. When it comes to John, he always has. There's nothing more to say on the matter.

The Italian - God, it really bothers him that he's remained nameless this entire time, God _forbid_ he'd say his _fucking_ name - adjusts the silver watch on his wrist, checks the time. His dark eyes track the second hand waiting. He glances up, then down, with a grin. "I hope you're ready, _Signor Holmes_. You may start... _now_."

Almost immediately, Sherlock is assaulted by the sound of screaming, coming from all directions. He jumps, then starts to panic, but he chokes it back. His brain tells him if he runs off in the wrong direction, there will be no way to make up that time. Running _at his best_ would take more time than he has to get from one end to the other. But then which way was the _right_ way? The hard stone of the cathedral caused the screams to bounce and echo around him, creating a whirlwind of sound and making it almost impossible to focus. He caught himself visibly shaking, then forced his eyes closed. The darkness seemed to help. It made his ears focus for once, instead of his eyes.

He stood for a moment, knees bent and tensing, feeling his ears prick and twitch with various tones and pitches. He recoiled slightly at the louder shrieks and panicked shouts. _Think God damn it, think! Listen, deduce, _something_!_

But wait. What was _that_?

"Two minutes,_ Signor Holmes_."

Sherlock shook his head, wrinkling his nose. There was something he was missing. As he continued to focus on the world-shaking noise surrounding him, he nearly forgot to listen to what he _didn't_ hear.

"Nearly _un minuto_, _Signor Holmes_..."

Fighting back distress, he honed in on something he hadn't heard before. Quite literally. On the other side of the cathedral, back from where they came, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was completely silent. It wouldn't take him long to get there, but he had to be _sure_.

"You're a tad under the one minute mark, _messere_."

Sherlock ran. Whether or not it was towards a trap, he didn't care. He ran with Godspeed, from the far end of the nave, again past the Holy Sepulchre Chapel, the Reliquary Chapel, the High Altar, St Swithun's Shrine. He paused for a moment a few metres from the Lady Chapel, before deciding it was absolutely the Guardian Angels Chapel he wanted. _Oh Christ_, and with only seconds to spare.

When he found him, John was a heap under the vaulted ceiling. The detective didn't bother glancing up at the angels there - it was too dark and he had other things to see.

"_John_!"

To his utter delight, John looked up. His eyes were wide and his mouth was obstructed by duct tape. Typical, everything so typical, from the rope around his wrists, to the state he was in. How trite this game was, yet so... so... _God!_

"_Sherlock_!" the good doctor cried when his mouth was freed. Said detective didn't hesitate to leave a relieved and extremely short peck there before undoing his other bonds. Everything was fine, everything was all fine, this game was all over and John was safe and alive. It was only a few hours away from dawn.

Pulling him to his feet, Sherlock heard a chime from his pocket. John followed him easily on their way as he read.

_Congratulazioni, gattino. My regards from Jim.  
-N_

Somewhere in the very pit of his stomach, Sherlock knew that this wasn't the end. Not really.

* * *

Outside, nearly off the church grounds, Sherlock patted down his doctor in the witness of the still disturbingly empty city. John tried to protest, but really, he was relieved to have the detective's hands on him, no matter how demanding and forceful and insistent. After the search bore satisfactory results, with only minor bruising and a small gash just shy of John's temple, Sherlock let him go. Their eyes connected for a long moment before the mutual, post-panicked silence was broken by shattering air and a loud crack. Sherlock instinctively raised his right arm and jumped to the right. He heard swearing behind him, and his eyes landed immediately back onto John. Nothing but a pale face and wide eyes all over again. There were flecks of blood near his neck, but not his own. Then he found it. A small bullet hole in his collar.

Sherlock, ignoring a distant numbing of his arm, whipped around to see none other than the nameless Italian.

"The regards were, of course, to you, after I kill your doctor despite your efforts to save him!" he shouted, reloading his weapon.

Sherlock smiled a dangerous smile, eyes burning, seeing red wherever he looked. "You should have tried harder." As the bastard raised his arm, the detective, using some quick thinking and complex calculations, swiftly pulled off his right shoe and hurled it precisely at the Italian. The gun, an ordinary pistol, Sherlock can barely notice in the blur, flew out of his hand. He dove for it afterwards in one fluid movement and grabbed it, firing twice. He hits his enemy square in the knees before anyone has any idea what happened. Oh no, Sherlock Holmes was _not_ pissing around this time, Sherlock-_fucking_-Holmes was not leaving _anything_ to chance _this time_.

"You damn bastard," he spat into the minion's face as he stood over the crumpled heap. John's voice floated somewhere to his left, and he ignored it. "You could have _fucking_ killed him!"

He recieved a chuckle and a "That was the point," before the not-to-be-fucked-with detective fired another round into the Italian's shoulder, just to stomp his remaining shoe onto it. The bastard winced, but nothing more. More red sparks flashed in front of his eyes before, with his left hand, and brought the pistol down onto his face again and again, insane laughter mixing with the flying crimson. He very nearly bludgeoned the bastard to death, before a shout, then a firm hand grabbed his upper arm and pulled him away. The next thing he knew, dark brown eyes and peppered hair were reproaching him. The hand let him go then, and John was at his side.

"Lestrade. What are you doing here?"

A grim smirk. "Do you two_ honestly_ think I don't keep tabs on the both of you- _You_ at the very least?" Sherlock nodded once in acknowledgement before voices called from across the grounds. The Italian laughed further.

When everything was well and quiet, and Moriarty's man was hauled away, John inspected Sherlock with worried eyes. It was just then that Sherlock actually paid any attention to the numb burning in his arm, spreading through his brachialis and into the surrounding muscles. The bone - the humerus - pained him quite a deal as well, but he found himself unable to focus on it. When the doctor inspected his coat sleeve, he was met with a good amount of blood and a wince. _Thank God for adrenaline, at least._

* * *

_Yeah, I'm about done for tonight. Proyecto de Espanol (fuck the tilde over the 'n') manana (fuck that tilde too), and I have to say everything in Spanish with no note cards or anything. Not even close to being done. Also calling hours for le friend tomorrow. Well, ciao, au revoir, adios and whathaveyou. Laters!_

_Hope you enjoyed. Since I'm a lying bitch, one more chapter. Not sure when it'll be up, though. Also, if any of you have read 'Out of my Element', my Mystrade story, I'll be updating...eventually. Yeah... love you guys! Until the next one!_


	12. Frustrations

Well, hopefully this is the last one. Sorry for the delay! Meretricious, and a Happy New Year! (If you get that pun, you win everything) Enjoy lovelies!

* * *

John was not happy. Sherlock could see it in his eyes, the way his lip twitched, the stiffness of his limbs. The consulting detective was equally unhappy, but for a different reason all together. There was going to be a long, in-depth talk waiting for him when they got home, and worst of all, the bullet had went right through his humerus, though it_ miraculously_ hadn't shattered, leaving him with mild surgery, and a cast. He would still have full function of his arm - just not for several weeks.

"You're _lucky_," John had huffed as he looked over Sherlock's arm, in it's plaster cast. They had a few minutes before they could leave, and the doctor was going to spend it giving Sherlock a taste of what was to come. "There's any number of arteries or veins that bullet could have nicked. Then what?"

"As I remember it, _you're_ the lucky one," Sherlock quipped, pulling his arm away as he gestured clumsily with his left hand at John's collar. A small hole was clearly visible, and certain thoughts made him shudder. "I think a shot to the neck is a tad more lethal."

John had huffed irritably, and continued to do so at varying intervals on the way home. Sherlock picked at his cast, grumbling to himself, wondering if his doctor would let him work in such a condition.

* * *

As it turns out, John would_ not_ let him work in such a condition (and Sherlock_ did_ receive quite a talking-to), and his reasonings were understood. Sherlock could do _nothing_ with his left hand. Well, at least nothing worth while. When it came to adjusting a microscope, or measuring chemicals and other compounds or mixtures or solutions, his hand was shaky. His normally curled, elegant writing turned jagged and sloppy. He could no longer jump about or make wild gestures, since it jarred his injury. He could barely button his shirts, and showering was difficult as well. He _could_ drink tea, and he _could _do menial tasks, but that was essentially where the list ended. Sherlock couldn't stand it. He couldn't even sulk on the couch the right way.

John, on the other hand, was simply surprised at Sherlock's lack of ambidexterity. He had always assumed his friend was equally apt with both hands, since he was apt with so many other things. What a way to prove him wrong. Then again, it wasn't like he was extremely skilled using his_ right_ hand to do much. Other than using scissors, firearms, and medical work, he was _definitely_ left-handed. He did have an advantage over Sherlock, however, as it's a right-dominant world, and John has had to learn to do at least a few things with his non-dominant hand.

"I hate this damn thing..." Sherlock muttered one day. He was staring longingly at a pile of case files Lestrade had accidently-on-purpose forgotten on his last visit. Obviously payback for every annoying thing Sherlock had done over the past few years.

John chuckled sarcastically. "Your own damn fault," he muttered, though at the look his friend gave him, he offered a small smirk. "It'll only be a little while longer."

Sherlock hoped so - this damn thing itched and stank like nothing before. Not to mention he was bored out of his mind. The sexual frustration was a pain in the arse as well, since John refused to do _anything_ until the cast was off. He would make up for Sherlock's forced abstinence, though.

Very, _very_ well.

But the text messages would do for now.

(**_Would you please stop texting innuendos you fucking tease!_**  
**_SH_**)

_Or not._


End file.
